


like tick tick

by cantsaythursday (horriblekids)



Category: All Time Low
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-08
Updated: 2015-01-08
Packaged: 2018-03-06 15:23:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3139274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/horriblekids/pseuds/cantsaythursday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Time Bomb video AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	like tick tick

**Author's Note:**

> I'm importing all my ATL fic from Livejournal. I know on AO3 there isn't a lot of band/crew relationship stuff being written, but this stuff is about 4 years old now and I thought it might still be worth a read. Find me on tumblr [here](http://saidtheskeletons.tumblr.com) if you'd like!

**i.**                                        

Ian doesn’t want to sign, but he does anyway. Danny nudges his hip softly and whispers, “This is the only way.” He’s right - this is the only way they can stay together now. Conscription or a mandatory life sentence in prison with no chance for parole; that’s what their lives have come to. The man taking their registration cards is in his forties, slightly overweight and with a ridiculous moustache that they would have made fun of under other circumstances.

Both of them stand up as straight as they can and approach the long, rickety table. The man looks Ian up and down, nods, and says, “Eh, you’ll do.” He hands Ian and Danny both back little cards to be filled out and directs them to a line forming in another hallway, full of nervous-looking young men like themselves.

He wishes they could hold hands, but now, they can’t. They can’t ever again.

Danny goes into the room first, long after they’ve both figured out that nobody who goes into that room comes out the same door without different clothes on and a long-barreled rifle slung over his shoulder. Before he goes, though, he turns to look at Ian and mouths the words, “ _I love you._ ”

Ian tries to hold onto that memory when his turn comes. It’s pretty standard - just a physical, they tell him, and then he’ll be given his fatigues and his weapon - so he stands there and lets them measure him. He swallows the small red pill they give him, swallows it dry, but it doesn’t do anything. He wonders what it’s for, but he’s afraid to ask. It leaves a chalky taste in his mouth that doesn’t go away no matter how hard he tries.

They give him a gun and, for the first time, he realizes how dangerous this is. He’s going to have to shoot _people_. He’s going to have to shoot someone.

**ii.**

The pills were harmless, they said. Just something to help the crowds get pumped when they brought the bands out. So Alex took one - hell, Alex took _five_ because he’s the party king, nobody parties harder - and he was disappointed when they didn’t work. He was disappointed, and he felt numb, even when the hottest people at the bar tried to grind with him. Shedding glitter all over the floor of the club, he staggers for the door.

Maybe some fresh air is just what he needs, he thinks. The room is spinning.

He doesn’t see the group of men winding their way through the club carrying government-issue rifles. Doesn’t even know to look out for them, in fact - doesn’t know not to take the new pills the dealers are all pushing - because the party king doesn’t want the goddamn _news_. So he’s flying, _flying_ through the crowd, it feels like, and he doesn’t know that these people are here for him. Accidentally he knocks into a guy; maybe it’s a girl, he’s not too sure, it doesn’t matter, and the words that come out of his mouth are slurry and drunk.

“I’m sorry, man,” he stammers. The reason he takes the pills is because otherwise he gets anxious in crowds; he gets anxious around people but he likes being at the club. He likes the kandi kids and their brightly-colored beads and their lightshows, although those have been less and less in vogue lately. It’s been better lately, he hasn’t needed the pills hardly at all because there are less people in the club. Maybe he needs to build up a tolerance to the new drug.

“ _It’s like dropping E, only better,_ ” the dealer told him. The dealer had that haggard, scared look about him and it’s like he really wanted Alex to buy these pills, even though he didn’t know what they did. They were small and oval-shaped, they were red and had an ‘X’ stamped on them in Times-New-Roman font - Alex remembers, he remembers from back in the days when people still had books, yeah. He read a book once, when he was still very small, that goes like this: Everyone was happy because the government controlled everything, and then one man rebelled. He had a lot of sex - like when Alex rolls on E, yeah, like that - and then they get captured and tortured with rats and weird shit, and then, and then, they get brainwashed and reset and poof, magic, everybody’s happy again.

Alex liked that book.

From behind, he’s being grabbed but he feels pretty numb; his arms and legs feel liquid and he doesn’t realize until too late that he’s supposed to fight back. There are more pills in the pocket of his denims. Shit, he thinks. There’s a whole baggie. He feels like his heart should be pounding right now, but everything is going in slow motion. It’s all so surreal.

Someone puts a blindfold on him and holds something awful-smelling to his nose. _Formaldehyde_ , he thinks it is, but he doesn’t have time to think about it because it’s the pass-out drug. And so Alex Gaskarth, the party fuckin’ _king_ , this is how he gets kidnapped.

**iii.**

The pills don’t work on Danny.

They don’t work _at all_. He pretends that they do, though, because he doesn’t want to get in trouble. He likes the patrols part of his job. He likes being able to go places no one else is allowed to go and, just for a minute, to breathe the fresh outdoor air. That’s why they promoted him to squad leader.

“It’s an honor,” his commanding officer tells him, looking him straight in the eye.

Something about it doesn’t feel so honorable, considering he has to do everything they tell him or they’ll still blow his head off. And the restrictions are getting so much more - so much more _strict_. Last week they raided all the music halls still standing in the city, arrested a bunch of dealers and captured some of the partygoers. Danny’s not sure what any of them have been charged with - the drug dealers _especially_ , since they were peddling the government’s stupid mind-control drugs that don’t even work, apparently. He’s just doing what he needs to do to get _by_ but it all feels so wrong.

The government tells them all the time that this is for the betterment of society, but nothing’s getting any better. Everything is getting worse; they’ve separated him from Ian, who isn’t even speaking to him, who isn’t even in his fucking _squadron_ anymore because the pills don’t work on him, either. Only Ian’s the type of person who isn’t good at pretending things are okay when they’re not.

They cottoned onto that one quickly and now they’re making him do their _dirty_ work in some abandoned warehouse somewhere; something with blueprints and nitrates and fertilizers, something only Ian could know because he’s the smart one between the two of them. Sometimes he wonders if it was the right decision, pushing Ian into this. They could’ve run. Ian’s smart enough, he could have figured out a way to get out of this hellhole and run somewhere safe, somewhere the people are still _free_.

Danny worries about Ian all the time, even though Ian doesn’t love him anymore. Sometimes, there are days when he thinks they could finally make it _work_ , but then there are days like today when Ian makes him want to tear his fucking _hair_ out. He’s not supposed to be listening; he’s not supposed to be listening to this conversation at all but he’s doing it anyway - tucked inside an empty doorway and overhearing Ian tell him that he needs longer, he needs more _time_ , and the general tells Ian that it’s tomorrow or never.

 _Stop being so fucking stubborn_ , he thinks.

He doesn’t know why Ian is so unwilling to let them go through with this plan. It’s not going to hurt anyone; but then again there’s so much stuff he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know where Ian goes when he’s not in his little shop of horrors, working on stuff that’s going to blow up the world.

So this time, for the first time, he breaks rank and he follows Ian when he leaves the warehouse that night.

**iv.**

Alex is not used to situations where he’s not tripping _balls_ anymore. He doesn’t know where he is, where these people have taken him, but even he is smart enough to know that he is in some serious shit. These people in lab coats keep coming in and looking at him, writing stuff down on clipboards and then leaving. When he’s not being observed by the doctors, he guesses they are, sometimes they send someone else to watch him.

Most of the soldiers stand outside the door with their backs to him, unmoving until the next guy comes to relieve him. There’s one who doesn’t. There’s one who stands in the room and looks at him, picking at the cuticles of his nails until they bleed and stares at him wide-eyed. He must not be on the pills, Alex thinks. That’s a good thing. _Alex_ is not on the pills anymore.

One day the guy comes in and looks at him and says, “I’m sorry,” before he leaves.

That’s the day they draw all the lines on him with markers and shave all the hair off his chest. He doesn’t want to know what comes next. Nothing good, he thinks. It’s a little sad when the guy doesn’t come all the next day - _his soldier_ , Alex calls him in his head, even though he’s obviously not one - and it’s probably not a very good sign either. The doctors come in once more overnight to measure him and prod at his chest. It’s uncomfortable; Alex wants to _squirm_ under their scrutiny and try to get away, but he can’t because whatever they’re drugging him with makes him sluggish and unable to move.

 _Pills_ , he thinks. _Pills, pills, pills_. He’s still thinking about the little red pills and how they got him into this mess; he’s thinking about how he’s going into withdrawal without all of his pills, how he throws up and sweats all the time and he’s strapped to this bed so he can’t move.

_He can’t think of a single goddamn red pill with an ‘X’ stamped on it._

Once it’s pitch-dark, there are no more sounds coming from anywhere in the building. That’s how Alex judges time; light and dark, sounds and no sounds. But there is something coming - he can hear the soft pat-pat-pat of shoes down the hall, creeping closer and closer. There’s a soft blue glow outside the door. He pretends to be asleep at first, afraid it’s one of the doctors or the soldiers. He’s pretty sure that whatever’s in the red pill, that’s what they’re pumping into his system right now and it makes him feel sluggish and disconnected from his body, but that’s _all_ it makes him feel.

“I’m gonna save you.”

Alex opens his eyes; it’s _him_. He wants to protest, but he’s so tired. “You were there that night,” he whispers. He doesn’t know how he knows - he just does, somehow. He thinks about it, like he hasn’t a million times since they captured him and brought him here. And then something in his mind clicks. He knows what the pills are _for_.

He knows what the pills are for, and the parties, and he even knows what all the goddamn adverts on the tubes were for too. How many times has he seen someone he knows buy those little red pills at the clubs or at a party and then, a week later, see them on the street in military fatigues slinging a gun around like it’s a plaything?

Just when he thinks nothing else can surprise him, his soldier tells him, “They’re going to try and make a suicide bomb out of you. First they’re going to give you a lobotomy and then they’re going to make me put the bomb in your chest, but I don’t want to do it.”

“Tell me what to do.”

**v.**

He doesn’t sleep at all that night. Hands shaking, he tries to finish welding it shut before the squadron arrives to pick him up, _escort_ him to the hospital where they’re going to make him… No. Because he’s not going to do it, is he? He’s going to finish early, take their goddamned time bomb and make a run for it. They both are. He’s not going to let them use _human beings_ as unwilling suicide bombers.

It’s one thing for the enemy to do it and die nobly because they believe so much in the cause they’re dying for. This is ridiculous. So Ian’s tired, he’s so fucking tired because not only has he been trying to finish this in time, he’s also been trying to figure out how to give it enough charge to set the boy’s nervous system off again because he’ll have technically been dead half an hour by the time they’re supposed to put the bomb in.

 _So it’s less like a human and more like a machine_ , the general told him.

Ian’s a pacificist, but he’s never wanted to punch anyone in the face more than he did just there. He knows they’re watching him; he knows he only has minutes to get the fuck out of here before they’re onto him and he knows they can probably move faster than he can, too. Nervously, he takes off his eye protection and sets his welding torch down. Hopefully nobody noticed the faded maps of the city on the wall alongside his blueprints. He thinks Danny might have when the general toured his workshop yesterday, but if he did, he _didn’t_ say anything.

There’s still an uncomfortable feeling in his chest when he thinks about Danny. He _loved_ Danny and now look at what they’ve become. It’s a little like reverse Stockholm syndrome, what he feels for this boy he’s going to try and save. He doesn’t know why he should feel so strongly about it. Doesn’t know why he even thinks about it, _actually_. He holds his breath and looks at the finished product for half a second before he slips into his jacket.

Even if they didn’t notice the maps on the wall, anyone would have to be an idiot not to notice the stolen surveillance photo tacked up there too. He’s screwed.

Outside the door, he hears the unmistakable scuff of boots on the stairwell. There’s only one way out; he’s going to have to jump and hope he survives the drop. It’s only one storey. So he throws the bomb into his backpack and zips it up, hurriedly throwing the pack over his shoulder and making as much of a run for it as he can. They’re coming up the stairs led by Danny, which makes his heart stutter in his chest for half a beat, but he _can’t_.

It catches the rest of the squadron off-guard, at least. Danny stumbles for a minute before shouting, “Don’t just stand there! Go after him,” and one of the others fires a shot that goes whizzing by Ian’s ear, too close for comfort. He runs as fast as he can, as hard as his legs will carry him, but no matter how fast he runs he can still hear them behind him. He cuts across alleys and up unused fire escapes, but _dammit_ , Danny knows him too well.

He cuts across a side street and through another abandoned warehouse. Just when he thinks he’s lost them, he hears a gunshot collide hard with metal. Yeah, they’ve shot open the lock on the door. _Shit_. He’s not going to get to catch his breath after all. The other thing is, he doesn’t want to run too fast. He’s carrying a goddamn bomb. In his head he can hear the steady tic-tic-tic.

“Please don’t be too late,” he pants, running hard into the hospital. No one’s there yet; it’s too early. He knows the way - he’s snuck in enough times to find it with his eyes closed - and he’s lucky to have made it this far.

There _he_ is, lying motionless under a sheet stained with blood. Just don’t think about it. Don’t. Hastily Ian takes the bomb out and places it in the hole - they put the right fittings in but there’s a chance in _hell_ of him putting it in without the wires touching the sides and killing them both - so he holds his breath the entire time. It goes in. _Nothing happens_. He starts to panic - he can hear them getting closer, despite his best efforts to lose them - and then the footfalls stop right outside the room.

“ _Shit_ ,” he breathes. Danny’s pointing the rifle straight at him, but hesitates. His face is impassive and hard, just like it has been from the first day they were given the red pills.

The boy finally, _finally_  wakes up and it’s so unfortunate that they’re both going to die. Danny’s face breaks for an instant. He whispers, “ _Go now._ ” What? He’s going to let them get away? Maybe Danny still loves him after all. There’s no time to think about that; he gives the boy his jacket and hoists himself up on the bed, barely tall enough to reach the skylight with the tips of his fingers. He’s going to have to break the glass to have a chance in hell of escaping.

The sounds of the soldiers are farther away now, but not for long. “What-” the boy starts to ask.

“No time,” Ian says roughly, bracing himself for the pain and the shattering of glass when he punches through the skylight above them. “Get ready to run.”

**vi.**

They go up to the rooftop. Danny is trying to give them time to get away, he’s _trying_ but he wasn’t expecting the general to show up and chastise him for not foreseeing this situation. Well, he did. He knows Ian better than almost anyone - that’s why he’s been deliberately slowing and misleading them, trying to give his ex-lover a chance of making it out alive.

He doesn’t know what the boy is to Ian but he’s seething with jealousy. If they’re going to set off the bomb, he doesn’t want Ian anywhere _near_ it. For fuck’s sake, if Ian’s gone and done what he thinks he’s done… “I want them both in custody _yesterday_ , Kurily, got that?” the general snaps at him. So he has no choice but to lead his squad up onto the rooftop, where surely enough he can see Ian and the boy running for their lives across the hot asphalt. The boy is wearing Ian’s jacket, he realizes.

He’s starting to understand the _shoot first, ask questions later_ mentality all too well.

If they could just clear the other side of the building, though… There are some pretty high office towers nearby if they could just jump. But Ian keeps stopping to help the boy because _obviously_ he’s dead weight, _obviously_ Ian got there in time to stop them killing him, which is at least a good thing. The general has stopped them in their tracks - there’s nowhere else for either party to go.

Ian raises his arms above his head, dropping his pack on the ground. Death by firing squad, Danny thinks, is _not_ honorable. For that’s what this is - the four of them all standing in a line, guns raised, while Danny’s ex-lover sinks to his knees in defeat. The boy is just standing there, not moving, and for a second Danny has to wonder if he’s stupid or suicidal.

“ _Ready your weapon_ ,” the general growls. He can’t.

And now he understands the jacket. Oh, his wonderful, foolish Ian. The boy opens his jacket to reveal the glowing bomb in his chest, supercharged with enough power to blow up the entire _city_. They can’t shoot.

Defiantly, he raises his chin and tells the squadron “Lower your goddamn weapons. _Now_.”

The instant it takes for the general to realize that Danny’s defying a direct order is all it takes for the two rebels to take off sprinting across the rooftop, straight past the firing squad and onto the adjacent rooftop. \

**vii.**

When they finally stop running, Alex cries. He throws up. He’s going through such bad withdrawals, _shit_. He wants pills and pills and pills to feel better; he wants the bass pounding with the beating of his heart and, and - shit. _Shit_. His heart isn’t even beating.

It’s going tic-tic-tic in his chest.

“ _What have you done to me?_ ” This is what he gets for putting so much blind faith in people.

His soldier, who isn’t really a soldier at all - he doesn’t even have a _gun_ , fuck, this is so _stupid_ \- falls to his knees, breathing hard. “I tried,” he pants. “I tried to - save you, I tried, I’m so sorry,” he says. And there’s some _thing_ in Alex’s chest and he’s run away with a guy whose name he doesn’t even know, someone who doesn’t know the first thing about him, who probably only saved him to save his own ass. He doesn’t even know Alex’s _name._

Alex wonders why he’s not that winded. Maybe it’s the pills. He stands up and brushes himself off, decides it’s better with his borrowed jacket on, and pushes the sleeves up to his elbows. They’re outside the city, somewhere - he doesn’t exactly know where, but for once no one is chasing them or doing things to him or pushing drugs on him. Nobody is following _orders_ or doing things because someone told them it was a good idea. Such deep thoughts for a self-professed happy, sparkly, gay party fairy diva. It all seems like such a fucking _joke_ now, you know?

He kicks the ground. He doesn’t know what they’re doing, doesn’t know why he’s angry. All the feelings that the pills were supposed to numb are coming flooding back. “It’s Alex, by the way,” he snaps.

“What?”

“In case you were wondering. My name. It’s Alex.” He sounds bitchier than he intends to, sure, but this is fuckin’ _frustrating_. He’s the motherfucking-party- _king_ , not… not a rebel against the government,  not a rebel against anything, not even his parents. And so in an act of bravery so bizarre it shocks even him, he hauls his soldier up by the collar of his shirt and kisses him hard. The other man makes a surprised noise and doesn’t react at first, eventually reciprocating the gesture until Alex pulls away. _What the fuck._

His soldier looks at him, laughs, and says, “It’s not armed.”

**viii.**

Ian doesn’t feel anything.


End file.
